Mellow Fruitfulness :)

It is a beautiful, beautiful day. The afternoon was pure poetry...and now, early evening, it is all I can do to prepare for a paper on Strategy tomorrow without running out for a walk on the Ridge. Just thinking about the Ridge in this weather makes me want to throw everything aside and take off. The sky is clear and blue; there's a very soothing, cool (yes, cool!) breeze blowing; the world is bathed in mellow golden light; everything is just...perfect. Almost too good to be true. Honestly, this weather begs a walk. Know what, I think I'll give Strategy a break.

:)

p.s. If this weather makes me want to borrow Keats' words, just how beautiful must the English autumn have been, to inspire them in the first place? Sigh.

Image courtesy Google Images

What I'll Miss About Delhi - Part I

How's this for absolute randomness: In spite of wanting to do some writing, I just didn't feel inspired enough to come and post a proper entry here in days. Now, out of the blue (quite literally!), just as I made a conscious decision to return to my hermit crab ways for a bit, there's a volley of posts and I'm seized with an overwhelming urgency to write about all that I'm thinking of. Life, I tell you. :)

Anyway, it rained today - almost. Actually, it did...but it didn't last long enough for anything - not to offer any respite from the heat, not to permit at least one rain dance, not even for the earth to get thoroughly soaked and quenched. Instead, it has left everything in a limbo of sorts. The leaves are undecidedly wet and dewy; the sun is drying itself off before it returns to work; the air is still choosing between dragon breaths and minty freshness, droplets and vapour almost visibly suspended in the atmosphere. Somwhere, I'm sure, a paper-boat is lying half-folded, and a family of sparrows debating the wisdom of venturing out once again today.

But it was good, even if it lasted only ten minutes. The world does look freshly-laundered. :)

Walking back from the department this evening, I couldn't take my eyes off the riot of colours that the trees always become at this time of year. Every conceivable shade of every imaginable colour. It was with a pang that I realised that I don't quite know when I'll set eyes on all this beauty again, after a few weeks. Yes, I'm glad I'm leaving Delhi, and hopeful that it will be a year or two, at least, before I return. But the fact is, I've spent six formative, very eventful, memorable years in this city...and I love it (which is why I'm looking forward to going away for a bit...but haven't I written enough about that already? :)...

...and now, in no particular order, here are the things I will miss about Delhi, and the University in particular. I know I'll never manage an exhaustive list on this one...but here's an attempt:

1. The greenery. There's no two ways about it...there could be trees and vegetation galore in other cities, but it won't be the same. It's lush, soothing...and very, very beautiful.

2. The history. The city breathes it. It's grand and old and hoary and proud...and in many ways, it deserves to be. And this isn't just about the Jama Masjid or the Red Fort...it's also about all the little alleys and broad avenues, old localities and older names.

3. The freedom. It's the Capital. There are all kinds of people here, from every place imaginable. And they're all welcome to stay, explore the place, study, make a living...just be, because no one owns the place, really. Delhi will embrace you, no questions asked. And that is its biggest beauty.

4. Haanji. The all-purpose magic word.

5. The food! While I will have to admit that my experiences here are solely responsible for what now seems to be a lifetime's worth of aversion to rajma and dal makhani, I will miss all the other food. Period. Delhi loves its food, both the street and the exotic variety...and there's "planty of it, ji". :)

6. The bookstores - and Daryaganj. The bibliophiles' paradise. Enough said.

7. The Delhi Metro. I was thrilled when it began running from Vishwa Vidyalaya to Kashmere Gate (yes, I was here that long ago :), have consistently counted it amongst my biggest blessings in this city, and appreciated it even more fell even more thoroughly in love with it after a two-week brush with the Calcutta Metro. The crowds may have seen an exponential increase, and the legendary precision of timing may have taken a small beating...but my gratefulness and affection will remain an incontrovertible truth.

8. Summers and winters. Six of each, and I know I'll handle any kind of weather, anywhere. But I doubt I'll find as feisty and authentic a summer, and as poetic and picture-perfect a winter in another part of the world.

9. This strange mix of laid-back luxury and total chaos that this city is capable of. It's a living, breathing mass of contradictions, in this way, and in many others. I'll probably go into that later.

There's more to come. This list is incomplete. It feels incomplete to me. Next, the University.

Monkey Business

"Whoa! What? Wait! Wait!"

He took off, waving three A4 sheets in my face. Three sheets that I had scribbled furiously on since dawn, driven by the sort of urgent creativity only a deadline looming large can inspire.

My tutorial assignment on Foreign Trade in India between 1920 and 1945.

There was no escaping them in Residence - and in Allnutt South in particular. The backyard shared a wall with the Ridge, and Allnutt Gate opened onto it. Monkeys were not just a part of the general landscape. They were the landscape.

What a rotten, rotten way to begin the week.

The tute was already three days overdue. [Why else do you think I rose at 4 a.m. on a dewy October morning?]

The monkeys owned the place. No two ways about it. They would brachiate into the backyard with abandon, timing their entry with that of the first ray of sunlight. And then they occupied infested the trees, the grounds, the staircases and the corridors. In all fairness, they didn't do much to bother the Residents. Not much, if you didn't take into account the shrieks that rang through the block every time a girl suddenly found herself face-to-face with a grinning monkey around a corner, or the regularity with which T-shirts and dupattas went missing from clotheslines.

But a tute? What monkey wants a tute?

Come what may, that assignment had to be handed in that day. The next two days were University holidays, and for all the credits that the tute was going to fetch me any later than that Monday, I knew I might as well not bother finishing it.

It had taken me the better part of three hours, frenzied rummaging through my notes, and vast amounts of imagination to produce about 1200 words on the topic. Because it was so eminently an eleventh-hour job, I didn't have time for the draft I usually made before writing my assignments. It was okay, I thought, busily highlighting key points. The tute would go in today. That was all that mattered.

I unscrambled myself out of my armchair, yawned, stretched and breathed in the morning air. Fresh. Good. Now that the job was done, maybe I could take a nap before class began at 8.40. Sleep was catching up with me again. It is interesting to recall that I smiled as I thought that it had been a good idea to choose the verandah over the room to write my tute in. Because it was the last time I smiled that day.

And, of course, because I thought it was a good idea.

Every time you ran into a monkey in Allnutt South, you were guaranteed to be left wondering exactly how the creature managed to make you feel like an intruder in your own block, outside your own room - assuming, that is, that the panic at seeing those teeth bared in a rude sneer left any room in your head for wonder.

I left my tute, glasses and pencil on the window ledge, and went into my room for some water. When I stepped out, it took me a moment to register that the ledge looked different. Figures, I thought, still sleepy. The monkey hadn't been there when I had turned to go into my room.

The what?

All sleep fled.



What was a monkey doing here? And those sheets it was clutching couldn't be...they weren't...

"Whoa! What? Wait! Wait!"

He took off, waving three A4 sheets in my face. Three sheets that I had scribbled furiously on since dawn, driven by the sort of urgent creativity only a deadline looming large can inspire.

My tutorial assignment on Foreign Trade in India between 1920 and 1945.

Mothballed

Now, when I wrote last March about the winter gone by, remarking that it hadn't quite been the real thing, the season probably took it to heart.

Because this year, it seems eager to hell-bent on outdoing itself.

The sun appears and disappears at will. Fog appears - and does not disappear. Chilly winds go tearing down the streets at sixty miles an hour. Every time I uncap my little jar of Vaseline, I end up digging my finger into petrified petroleum jelly. And last evening, my roommate spent twenty minutes on the terrace, and returned to the room sporting a dewy halo around her curly brown head.

The first couple of times that the mercury dipped to (below?) record levels, the media took to prowling the streets and accosting already-harried passers-by with questions on how it feels to live in a cold, cold city like Delhi. Then, as the mercury stayed put where it had fallen, the microphone- and camera-wielding folk lost interest. At least we have been spared the chagrin of being reminded of our North Pole-esque circumstances on national television. Brr.

But I'm still in love with all you seasons, Winter, so, try as I might, I can't hate you.

Basant Panchami slipped by in a haze of fog and muted sunshine. Saraswati Puja. Pushpanjali, sarees, marigolds, camphor. A silent, fervent prayer to the deity of Knowledge and Music. A trip with friends to the Bengali School grounds at Civil Lines. The remainder of the day spent at the Book Fair at Pragati Maidan, or somewhere on campus.

This year, the prayer was the only part of it all that happened. Memories followed.

Full Circle - 2

The '2' in the title is because I remember writing a post titled this way earlier...some time in March, I think. I'm not sure if it's still here, though. Between my own whims and the even more whimsical Blogger, I never am sure what stays and what doesn't.

But life does have a way of coming full circle in the strangest ways. I have had my Airtel prepaid number for five and a half years now. I bought it when I first came to College...and it has seen me through graduation, M&A research, a million highs and lows, scores of emergencies and a thousand impulses. When I finish post-graduation next year, I will leave Delhi. Till then, 98*******8 will continue to define me to my family and friends as the girl who misses more calls than the rest of the world put together, and writes text messages that read like theses.

The reason why I'm talking about those five years and this number is that, if I choose, I can enable calling on my phone at one paisa a second to any number in India. That, people, is a big (albeit expected) leap from what things used to be, not just for me or for Airtel (in different ways, of course), but for telecom in India as a whole. There's a whole lot of economics and marketing and strategy there, but I'll think aloud about that some other time. I just happen to be in a phase where the most mundane things bring back associations, and Airtel and 1 paisa are doing exactly that.

Back when I first got to Delhi, a local call cost 2 bucks a minute, and a single message set you back by a rupee. STD calls (I made a lot of those to my folks my first year, before I went devious and started missed-calling them for every little thing ;) cost 2.65. Roaming charges were nothing short of daylight robbery. So when Airtel came up with their one-rupee-a-day-rental one paisa per message scheme, it was a relief godsend. Rezzies are perpetually broke, so it helped tremendously to have to recharge with, say, 50 bucks a month, and text away to glory for everything from sharing notes on tutes to planning a surprise birthday party.

But I don't remember how much I saved from my allowance with that scheme (whose expiry all Resident Airtel users mourned for weeks). What I do remember, and will always cherish, is the friendships those SMSes helped build and cement. My closest friendships to date are ones that began with random PJ forwards, moving on to banter and longish, typed conversations and growing deeper with exchanges on lectures and life and everything in between. That is not to say that there weren't conversations in person or time spent together or the other things that go into the making of the most wonderful relationships. What 1p/message helped me discover in myself and my friends, though, was the beauty of thoughts, questions, misgivings and smiles articulated as, and as soon as, they occur, without the inhibition that being face-to-face can sometimes bring. And that kind of sharing builds stronger bonds.

And then there came along special rates and lower charges and reduced roaming and, over three years, we'd pretty much begun to take local and STD calling at one buck as the standard.

Till DoCoMo came along whistling. (Pretty interesting how TTSL's GSM service got its name...apparently, docomo is a Japanese compound word for 'everywhere', which suited NTT DoCoMo, Japan's biggest telecom company, just fine as an indication of its network quality. Also, 'docomo' is a portmanteau for 'do communications on the mobile network'...very Japanese English, but interesting nonetheless! :)

And suddenly, all the others were scrambling to provide 1p/sec calling to their subscribers.

For a brand that is new to India, bright and colourful and tiny DoCoMo exudes the endearing energy and confidence of a little child, and has created quite a stir.

And so I was thinking, as I walked past yet another Do the New hoarding this evening, that life has, indeed, come full circle here, too. Now, I can call people for a song if I choose to...but the people I want to call the most are too far away. There's less time, more worries, less candour, more uncertainty. I wonder what it would have been like to spend only a paise a second five years ago. I know what it is like now...but I wasn't looking for this answer :) Short of declaring outgoing calls free of charge (or actually paying subscribers to make calls or send text messages), there isn't much telecom companies can do now. They're on their way down to the bone here.

Maybe I should take a cue from DoCoMo and do the new instead of brooding so much over the past like I am wont to do sometimes. But before I put all this ruminating out of the way and get back to the mad merry-go-round...to all the friends I met, got to know and grew to love over those fifteen months and afterwards, I miss you.

This post is dedicated to 1-paisa-per-message friendships that have come to mean so, so much.

Of this, that and the other

There's a nip - more than a nip, actually - in the air. The sort that skims lightly over bare arms and raises goosebumps. The cold is just new enough to be pleasant, and just sudden enough to take you unawares. And when you hug yourself, trying to huddle up against it, you feel warm and cosy and snug, and break, instinctively, into a smile...Old Man Winter remembers us, after all!

Just as you remember him. Just as you remember the shaft of sunlight that stole into your room every winter morning with delicious warmth. Just as you remember the thrill of being allowed to sleep till seven because school began at nine in the winter session. Just as you remember drawing trees and smiley faces - and graduating to signing your name - on the bathroom mirror when hot water baths steamed it up. Just as you remember New Year's Eves at home, when the warmth from sweaters and shawls paled before that of togetherness. Just as you remember scooting across your room barefoot to get the slippers you forgot somewhere else in your house, giggling as the cold floor bit the soles of your feet. Just as you remember marvelling at the first rosebud of the season, so tender and timid and beautiful and brave. Just as you remember wondering, from November to February, how you could ever have needed electric fans and refrigerators (and, for the rest of the year, how you could have done without them). Just as you remember cuddling up to an indulgent parent or sibling, enjoying the blessed warmth that relationships bring.

Just as you remember consistently missing 8.40s all through third term, the firmest determination notwithstanding. Just as you remember the sense of achievement that came from lugging a bucket of hot water all the way from the boiler to the first floor with minimal splashing. Just as you remember becoming a permanent fixture - with or without your books - on the College lawns every afternoon every day of the week, and all of Sunday. Just as you remember the fragrance of orange peel on your fingers every lunch break. Just as you remember the walks to Nirula's and the moongfali-wallah's after dinner every evening, recognising friends in hooded and sweatshirted figures passing by, and greeting them with a smile and a "Hi" that was invariably accompanied by a spiral of smoky winter breath. Just as you remember huddling with three other friends under a blanket meant for one, watching Pretty Woman for the fourth time and swapping notes on Mr. Right, then burrowing in with books and notes, shameless guilt for unprepared-for tests written large on every face. Just as you remember how completely you fell in love with the city no matter where you saw it - Daryaganj, the Red Fort, the University, CP, South Ex...Delhi's soul is never as beautifully consummate as it is in winter.

Just as you remember walking with friends to the nearest dhaba for hot, butter-soaked parathas and milky tea. Just as you remember lazing in the living room, spending whole Sundays doing precisely nothing. Just as you remember laughing as you tried, unsuccessfully, to block a chink in the window pane with newspaper. Just as you remember being, just being, with people you may or may not have been the closest pals with, but who were an undeniably integral part of your life. Just as you remember staring at the moon through the December fog, startled out of inevitable trances by a flock of white birds flying across it in perfect V-formation.


All part of one life, even if it does seem to belong to a distant other that seems too fragile, too perfect, to be true. All part of a life that promises as much as it has brought.


My sweatshirts smell of mothballs and memories.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------


Before I sign off, there's something else I have to write about. A very simple gesture that made my day and lifted me, single-handedly, out of the blues.


The last few days have been difficult. I didn't sleep very well last night, and found myself beginning today running late. So I skipped breakfast and rushed to the department. Class was demanding - MIS is always demanding of concentration and patience - and there was a meeting right after the last one, which meant forgoing lunch. The meeting left me irritable and - I hate to admit this - angry. All of which means that by the time I got back to my room, I was tired, hungry, mad, blue and in the throes of a bad headache, which did nothing to improve my mood. I decided to give the cold hostel lunch a miss and headed out without quite knowing where. My feet took me to McDonald's pretty much on their own, so in I went, thinking some iced tea, a McVeggie, and a glance at the day's papers would do me good.


I left the counter with my tray - with my burger and iced tea on it - balanced on my right fist (yes, a loaded tray on my fist), in which I clutched my wallet, phone and keys. Standing near the ledge which held the drinking straw dispensers, I tried pressing the lever with my left hand. Now, I knew this was a bad foolish idea, I knew I should probably set my tray down before I got myself a straw, but I was already put off by other things...so I didn't bother with what was, technically, the right thing to do. Not even when the glass of iced tea skidded to the edge of the tray. I simply focused - in my scattered way - on the dispenser.


The glass toppled and iced tea spilled all over the floor.


Chagrined and wanting to kick myself, I went apologetically to the counter and requested that the spill be mopped up. They handed me another glass - I wasn't expecting one and I wasn't about to ask, after how stupid I had been - and the floor was mopped promptly. Tray balanced exactly as earlier - I think I thought I'd be more careful this time so the need to carry it more sensibly didn't occur to me - I tried reaching on tiptoe to the newspaper on the rack a foot above my head. Again, the right thing to have done would have been to set the tray down, pick the paper up, retrieve my tray, and head to my seat. But no. I stood there, glass and burger halfway to tilting over, trying to reach the rack. Uncharacteristically impractical. Says a lot about how blue I was...when, out of nowhere, a hand over my head lifted the paper from the rack and held it out to me.


Looking up, I saw one of the security guards from outside the restaurant standing on the lowest of the steps to the counters, smiling politely and waiting for me to take the paper from him.

I broke into my first spontaneous smile in three days.

I thanked him warmly, feeling very, very, very grateful for that simple gesture. He didn't have to do it...but he did. And he didn't expect profound gratitude for it, but I was profoundly grateful. Not just because he saved me and the food from another disaster, but because - and I still can't find the words to explain how or why - he suddenly made me feel a lot better. Lighter and happier and better.

To people like that gentleman at McDonald's...for simple thoughtfulness that can lift whole clouds and make so much difference...thank you :)


I expect I'll be a regular here in the next few weeks (at least till last-minute panic for sem-end exams sets in...and I'll probably end up blogging about that too :). This weather tends to do that to me! So long.

Reflection

Big folder in hand (it contains about forty copies of each marksheet and certificate issued since eighth grade), confusion and anticipation in eyes that are squinting under a sun well on its way to the peak of its fury, the regulation bottle of water/Coke tucked into jhola/satchel, hesitation-and-exhileration-tinged voice that asks the rickshaw puller how much he will charge for a ride to this college, or that, or the other...I see myself in every kid on campus these days. I see my worries crease their foreheads as they check every poster and pamphlet pasted on the Wall of Democracy. I see my near-maniacal adherence to application deadlines in their scribbling pads, filled with details of interview schedules and entrance tests. I see my excitement at having finally arrived where I wanted to in groups of students huddling happily near the admissions office, comparing cut offs and sharing views. I see my bewilderment and total lack of preparation for the scorching Delhi summer in the kids clustered around the bantawala and the Kwality carts, fanning themselves with those precious marksheets as they wait for their drink or ice cream. Every time I bump into one of these kids, or stop to give them directions to the nearest photocopier's or some college or the hostels, I see my dreams and ambitions mirrored in their eyes. I see my youthful hopes in their manner, I see my determination in the way they stride on, once given directions.

In every kid milling around Andrews' Gate, especially, I see my excitement and nervous hopefulness. I see, as I watch them filling out pale green forms, my eagerness to prove myself a good fit with College, the extra care taken to ensure it's all perfect. In kids enquiring for the price of a Residence brochure, I see my keenness to be a Resident, my anxiety that I will ruin it all by forgetting a stamp or a signature. In the awestruck caress of their fingers over the stone pillars, I feel awe and that sudden feeling of belonging flooding my heart.

It is my worries, my fears, my hopes, my dreams, my beliefs and my efforts that each of them now wears on his or her face, eyes and smile; my desire to begin on the right foot that he or she walks with.

No, there were no shuttle services courtesy Idea, Airtel or Vodafone (brilliant marketing strategy, by the way. More on that later) all those years ago. There weren't even so many little information kiosks and helpdesks manned by students from DUSU, or the Northeast Association, or this party or that organisation. There was no Metro, so Vishwa Vidyalaya was not the hub of all the promotional brouhaha or the "Welcome to DU" activity. The centralised application system had not kicked in fully, so every college had its own form(alities). The hoardings (there weren't so many) were not plastered with "Welcome Freshers" or an equally hospitable variant of the same, enticing students to visit a showroom or eat at a restaurant and obtain special discounts. There was none of this.

But it was all the same. Because discounts and free shuttle services and helpdesks may come and go, but the phenomenon won't change: thousands of youngsters thronging the University, making an entry into so many things at one go - adulthood, college life, independent living, a new city. Despite what AC Nielsen or ORG-MARG will have us believe, marks - those all-important numbers defining every student's future - are no basis for differentiation. Nor is the small-town - big-city difference any less immaterial. Nothing. There's this underlying similarity that numbers or geography can't even begin to undo...a new beginning, innocent hope, a clean slate. Life like a highway waiting to be explored, for the very first time.

And that is what I envy them the most, those kids that I see myself in.

Delhi - 01 :)

One of the good things about summer training in Delhi is that I get to ride the Metro every day, half an hour each way. I get to visit central Delhi. I get to look at pigeons feeding by the score on Sansad Marg - the most perfect combination of grey and brick red there ever was. I get to plan my ever-pending trip to Jantar Mantar and Gurudwara Bangla Sahib. I get to think, determinedly, that I will wake up early enough one morning to be able to spend some time at the Metro Museum at Patel Chowk station, which is where I disembark every morning, bracing myself for the time and motion study-filled day ahead; also where I board the train back every evening from, looking forward, as I descend to the platform, to that fresh, crazy draft of air that is always rushing in from the far end of the tunnel, and which always hits me in the face, undoing in all of eight seconds the exhaustion of an eight-hour workday. It would be a real shame not to visit the Museum after having visited the station 70 times in all this summer.

I get to see fresh fruits piled four feet high at the juice vendor's, just outside Jeevan Vihar. The brightest yellow, orange, red and green I've ever seen. I get to breathe in the mild, musky fragrance of the little bud-like flowers that pepper the ground I walk on, flowers that fall with the early morning breeze from the branches overhead. I get to think the most random thoughts as I complete the last lap of the journey from Bungalow Road to Sansad Marg, skipping over the perpetual little puddle just outside the entrance to the Jeevan Vihar grounds. Nobody knows where that water comes from - the juice vendor says he sees that puddle practically every day of the year. It doesn't smell funny or look dangerous. It is just always there - that little puddle of water, one inch shallow, with petals and leaves and fallen flowers floating on the surface: Nature's very own Feng Shui bowl, meant to bring in good luck. Invariably, I find myself looking at my reflection swaying in and out of the puddle as I rush by. Invariably, I find myself smiling.

Summers in Delhi. Perfect.

That night, the moon rose full and bright.

For a total of twenty hours of studying, that wasn't such a bad exam, I thought as I pushed open the door to her room. "Can we go out for a while, please? I'm hungry."

"Good idea", she put down the slim volume she was reading. "Where shall we go?"

"Let's try that food at Sethi's that I was telling you about."

Half an hour later, we were walking back from Malkaganj, having agreed, the two of us, that all that we needed to round the evening out was a chocobar each. Walking down the pavement towards 32 UB, we thought the evening seemed eerily still. Breezy, busy, bright - but still. Something made me turn my head and look back at the gate to HRC. The sun, a sort of molten, confused orange, was hanging undecidedly over the trees.

"That's weird", she commented. She was right. Most days, the sun's packed and gone by that hour, and the moon's beginning to show.

He materialised out of nowhere. Right outside McDonald's. In each hand, he held a piece of bamboo, carved in the shape of The Buddha's countenance. The ornament was hollowed out at the centre, about two inches deep from the top. This hollow was stuffed with soil, and a tiny sapling planted in it. The complete effect was almost comical, and still, there was something so beautiful about the ornament that I took it - almost grabbed it - from his hand.

He looked at me with unusually, unnaturally bright eyes. He was about my height, hair unkempt, dressed in an ordinary pair of trousers and a shirt. Slung over his shoulder was a black jhola, embroidered with some kind of glittering thread. A third bamboo ornament stuck partially out of the jhola.

"But this is beautiful!" I couldn't help exclaiming. "What IS this?"

"It's a vase, madam. Unique. Hand-crafted."

"But how long is this plant going to live?"

"It will live, madam. All you have to do is water the soil every two days."

I looked at him dubiously, and turned a similar gaze upon the 'vase'.

"What if this plant dies? I'd hate a plant to die in my possession." I've always been overly sensitive to things of this sort.

"Why will it die, madam? One hundred and fifty rupees only."

"You're joking!" she gasped. "One hundred."

He adjusted the jhola over his shoulder. "Al...ri...ght."

She delved into her pocket for the money. I asked her to wait.

"You know what, please take this back. I love this, but I don't think it will survive in a hostel room. And what if I want to take it home? It will never survive the journey."

"Please, madam, you're my first customer today. In fact, you're my first customer here. I've never been here before."

"I'm really sorry", I said, ignoring her disbelieving look, "I'd hate to buy this and then see it ruined."

His face fell. But he managed a polite smile. "Oh, never mind, madam."

With that, he was gone as suddenly as he had appeared.

I turned and saw the sun sinking lower.

"What about that ice cream?" I tried to sound brisk and practical. I didn't know why I felt so disoriented and...sad.

In silence, we walked up to the Kwality cart, and asked for two chocobars.

"You know what", she said, "I can't believe you let him go. I can't believe you asked me to put my money back in. It's so obvious you loved that thing. And that poor guy's so disappointed too. What were you thinking? I'm going to go look for him."

"But wait!" I interjected, then, on an afterthought, I added, "alright, let's go."

I didn't wait to examine the sudden impulse.

The evening wasn't getting darker by the minute, the way it usually does. I wondered why.

We walked the length of Bungalow Road and back. Then we stopped at the junk jewellery guy's. "Excuse me, have you seen, uh, a man here? Carrying bamboo articles? A man with a big black bag?"

"Oh, that man", the vendor said, "yes, he walked down this road. Kept walking straight ahead. He must have reached Malkaganj by now."

We looked at each other, two minds with but a single thought.

Hurrying to a rick, she said "To Malkaganj, please, at the intersection."

"Why are we doing this?" I said aloud, more to myself than to her.

But we both knew the answer. We must.

Again, I didn't pause to ponder the impulse. Neither, I'm sure, did she.

We rode up to the intersection, keeping an eye out for a dark man, 5'5", with a black jhola on his shoulder and two bamboo vases in his hands.

Nothing.

We clambered off the rick at the intersection, and began asking around for a man answering to his description.

Nothing.

It did occur to me, for a fleeting moment, that this was a bit of a ridiculous, far-out thing to do. What was the big deal anyway? It was a vase. Unusual and beautiful and unlike anything I had ever seen, but a vase nonetheless. Funnily, as soon as that thought came and went, I intensified my search.

Nothing.

Tired and inexplicably dejected, we began to walk back to 32 UB. The sun was gone when I tried looking for it over the HRC gate.

"I don't get this", she said, for the tenth time, echoing my thoughts. "We took barely a minute at the ice cream cart. How fast COULD he have walked??"

"Oh well, we've just made the deadline", I said, referring to the 7.30 pm curfew our hostel imposes, as we rounded the bend near McDonald's and 32 UB loomed into view.

"Hmm...", I could tell she was preoccupied, even as I busied myself checking my shoes for grime. I hate having to wash them three times a week.

Suddenly, she stopped dead, jerking at my hand. "What?" I looked up, only to meet two very surprised, almost stunned eyes, which rested on mine for a fraction of a second before looking away, diagonally behind me.

I followed her gaze.

There stood the guy, talking to two men standing by a scooter. One held a vase in his hand. Our vendor was holding the other. Right next to the entry to the hostel. Our hostel.

We hurried towards him, and he spun around. "Yes, madam?"

"We looked for you everywhere. Everywhere! We walked up and down this road twice over. We went all the way to Malkaganj!"

"Oh", he looked apologetic. "I walked around a bit, and then I came here."

"We'd like to buy one of those."

"I'm sorry", he sounded even more apologetic, "I just sold both of these to these gentlemen here."

She stared disbelievingly at the vases, now in the strangers' hands. So did I. "So you have none left?"

"None, I'm afraid."

"Oh. Oh, ok", there wasn't much we could do to conceal how deflated we felt at that.

"Are you going to come back here?"

And unbeknownst to both of us, each of us was wondering why it mattered so much that we couldn't get it right away. It didn't matter why it mattered. It only mattered that it did.

"No", he smiled quietly, "I'm not sure. But maybe you'll find me at the end of Bungalow Road tomorrow. At noon."

"Alright, then, please bring one of these with you. We'll, uh, see you tomorrow."

"Yes, Madam", he adjusted the jhola in a now-familiar gesture, and began to walk away, leaving us a little dumbstruck. Then he turned around and said,

"Isi ko kismat kehte hain."

That night, the moon rose full and bright.

Love? Actually!

So, it's Valentine's Day. The economy needs all the help it can get, so here's my bit for the Gibsons, Archies and Hallmarks of this world - Happy Valentine's Day to you! I won't buy heart-shaped candy or massacre masses of orchids, but this much I can, and will, do.

I have nothing for or against the day, really. I had classes all morning, and am back in my room now. Last year, I was at work, researching transactions I knew nothing about. The year before that, I spent all day panicking and doing little else about a tute that was due two days before. You get the drift.

But I refuse to take a detour and walk an extra kilometre to 32 UB simply because all of Bungalow Road, from Reebok to Barista, Archies and the florist's included, is off limits for the ordinary junta. I've always thought that the saffron brigade was a bunch of jobless jackasses, but, honestly, the deployment of close to 500 policemen and the barricading of the entire street only because the custodians of our morality choose to demonstrate against teenagers holding hands is patently stupid. Traffic clogs the road, irritated pedestrians have to go hunting for the bylane that opens at the back of beyond, and everything is unnecessarily tense.

Are they trying to tell us that youngsters out together are a more serious issue than the kids forced into begging at NDLS? A bigger problem than the homeless that line the streets? Illiteracy, corruption, unemployment, terrorism?? No, other than volunteering to teach kids or arrange for temporary shelters, I haven't done much towards allaying any of these issues in my 23 years...but then I don't take the moral high ground on people exercising their rights in a democracy either. I'm no expert on the Constitution, but as I recall from tenth grade Civics, there wasn't anything in it about stocking greeting cards and presents, or hanging out together at the movies or in a coffee shop being a punishable offence. I'm very interested in getting to know what reasoning these jobless morons use in arriving at the conclusion that their imagined interpretation of our "culture" holds greater weightage than the Constitution. Also, since I haven't, in 18 years of formal education, been taught anything about beating innocent people up as part of our culture, I'd appreciate a chance to learn. I doubt that any of these saffron-clad idiots knows how to spell 'culture', to begin with, or ever studied beyond second grade. And by wringing its hands helplessly (if it is even doing that much) and actually deploying policemen to curb the violence, instead of having the whole lot of these people thrown into prison, the Government only endorses the absurdity.

The economist in me tells me this is basically because these scruffy, loud, blindly "ideological" men are unemployed - which means we have a bit of a trade-off between keeping inflation in check and living in sanity.

Here's a humble suggestion to the RBI, then : We can live with the inflation for a bit.

...and in the bargain...

Bargaining is elevated to a fine art in Delhi. If you're a student, living - as most students do - on a shoestring budget, especially, it is an art you want to perfect - or keep working at, at the very least. I should know! Rick rides, auto rides, book-buying sprees at Daryaganj, visits to Sarojini Nagar and Janpath, the fruit vendor in Kamla Nagar, the coolies at NDLS...before I left home for College and Delhi, the closest I had come to understanding the concept of bargaining in real life was in Premchand's short story, Idgaah. Hamid, the young protagonist, visits the annual Id fair with only three paise in his pocket, and spots a pair of tongs that he thinks his grandmother will like. He steps up and enquires how much the tongs cost, and the seller curtly replies "Chheh paise". What happens next is best quoted from the story itself: "हामिद ने गहरी साँस ली और कहा, "तीन पैसे में दोगे?" और कहकर आगे बढ़ गया, की दूकानदार उसे घुड़कियाँ न सुना दे। लेकिन दूकानदार ने घुड़कियाँ नहीं दी। बुलाकर चिमटा दे दिया।"

So that's what bargaining is, I used to think. Halve the price. That's it. Ha! That simple!

I was right. And wrong.

Soon after I arrived in Delhi, I learnt that unless one developed the ability to bring the price for certain goods and services (can't help the terminology - 5 years of economics! :) down to at least four-fifths of the quoted, one was liable to end up squandering half one's monthly allowance on rick rides and the odd half-kg of apples or bananas. In a few months' time, I also learnt that it was plain silly to pay the bookseller at Daryaganj Rs 150 for a slim paperback, and sillier still to pay anything more than two-fifths that amount for a t-shirt at Sarojini Nagar. And by allowing the driver of an auto-rickshaw to charge you as much as he quoted at the very beginning, you were allowing him to take you for a ride, pun fully intended (one way to avoid that was to go by the meter...but then meters have an unfortunate disadvantage: either they don't work, or, if they do, they're usually rigged. Besides, rare is the auto-driver who will concede that he ought to be going "by the meter", in the first place ).

When I managed rick-rides for Rs 12, auto-rides to CP (the Metro hadn't quite come into being back then) for Rs 70, and visits to Janpath or Nai Sarak in Rs 600, I felt pleased with myself. I had mastered the art!

Until someone showed me similar stuff, bought from the same place, at two-thirds the price. Or grinned patronisingly when they learnt that I paid fifteen bucks for a ride from College to Gwyer Hall.

Essentially, it takes one time to learn exactly how much the good or the service should actually cost. It makes sense to pay Rs 80 to get to India Gate, and if you tried beating it down to 40, you'd be plain unreasonable (unless you were in luck, and the driver himself asked for only that much!); similarly, it is plain inhuman to expect a rickwallah to take you all the way from, say, Malkaganj to Miranda House for only Rs 10. Again, why shouldn't the guy selling books secondhand, or trinkets and shawls, expect to make a small profit on his sales? It works this way: you do some accommodating, and he does some accommodating, and in the end we're all happy.

But it is interesting, this process. What you need, of course, is tons of patience, polite albeit firm language - and a sense of humour. It's easy enough: hear the price, and depending on where you are or who you're talking to, slash it right away by 15-50%. Nobody actually does all that mental arithmetic, naturally...the right price simply comes to you! Deduct a little something from what you think you ought to pay, and then declare that that is all you are willing to shell out. The entertaining bit is, the seller himself has added an extra something to what he actually wouldn't mind receiving - and then you can both start trying to get the other to meet you halfway :)

At Daryaganj, especially, booksellers have this special line for you - "Hai to itne ka, par aapke liye bees rupaye kam kar deta hoon". Harbour no illusions, this privilege is something he extends to all his customers. The transaction is usually consummated with "Chaliye na aapka na mera, (some amount) de dijiye", again, from the seller. You, in your turn, can choose to use the age-old technique: quote your final price, and, if he says no, turn up your nose and walk away as if you couldn't care less for the book or the rick-ride, or whatever is in question. Unless the seller is a very hard nut to crack, this usually brings the discussion right back onto the table!

At the end of the day, bargaining in Delhi can be a hassle, entertainment, or simply the carrying out of a necessity, depending upon how you choose to see it. I know people who relish the idea of a trip to Nai Sarak or Sarojini Nagar for the opportunities to bargain that it affords - it is, they claim, the ideal way to spend a winter afternoon, and a great chance to observe fellow human beings at their wittiest, most obstinate best. One does feel jubilant heading home with 15 great books, spanning everything from economics to fiction to crosswords, when one left one's room with only Rs 400 in one's pocket...this I can vouch for :)

To CP, with love.

I went to CP today, after what seemed like an eternity (for the uninitiated, CP is Connaught Place, the heart of Delhi - a hopelessly cliched description, but the one that fits it best, nonetheless - in ways more than one). The last time I disembarked at Rajiv Chowk (beats me why they've renamed CP that. It isn't like anyone actually uses that name - not even the MCD officials themselves) was with a friend who treated me to lunch at Pizza Hut, back in early November. Given that we were short of time that afternoon, we sped straight from the Metro Exit to Block E, and back. No...the last time I visited CP the way I visited it today - actually visited it - was...was...well, I don't remember.

June 2007. That must have been it. And now I feel tremendously shady (friends from College will understand why I said that :) In my defence, though, one year of this year and a half was spent in Gurgaon, commuting from where is no mean feat, especially when you rely upon friendly (!) CNG auto-rickshaws, DTC and DMRC to travel to your examination venue in Delhi every Sunday after a harrowing week at work!

Coming back to the point, though, I visited CP after a really long time. As always, I came back feeling more in love with it than ever. Some places have a tendency, an endearing one, to remain stuck in a time-warp. The Gwyer Hall canteen in North Campus is one example. The little Tibetan establishment at Majnu Ka Tilla, near Civil Lines, is another. And, in a slightly different way, CP belongs to the list too. Make no mistake, CP is one of the places to be; has pride of place on the list of the ten most expensive areas in the world to rent office space at; and is as old as it is elite. Every now and then, another grand building is added to the CP skyline, a new showroom, another restaurant...much as Delhi went from simply Delhi to the NCR, CP keeps growing, too.

The beauty of the place lies in the contrasts that coexist comfortably in it. I've been around here for almost five years now, and all this time, at least, there has been a certain quality about the area that hasn't changed in the least. There's something about CP that is remarkably old-world, quiet and dignified. Even the traffic, which makes its presence more than felt, cannot take away from the charm. Central Park always has that old-fashioned, manicured appearance. Even the pigeons seem exotic! I'm aware, as I write this, that these might read like the ramblings of a romantic twenty-two year-old, viewing the world (or CP, at least :) through rose-tinted spectacles. But that's how CP is! Beautifully old-world during the day, and equally enchanting in the evening. In winter, especially, with the lights glowing and a light fog swirling about, CP is a picture postcard. As I mentioned earlier, its contrasts add to the charm. So we have elderly couples walking slowly, hand in hand, around the Inner Circle, even as high-school kids and college-goers throng the benches, the restaurants, and the uber-cool showrooms. Mothers struggle with prams, toddlers, and shopping bags, and busy executives rush past, no time to glance at anything but their watches. Meanwhile, Delhi's junta lazes on the lawns of Central Park, where an Indian Ocean concert seems as natural a fit as an evening of classical music, or even a political gathering, does. Vendors offering chaat, banta and sweet potatoes man carts nestled right outside a KFC or a Sakura. They have nothing in common but their location; their proprietors wouldn't know each other if they met on the street someday, but both do equally brisk business, and both are happy. A gypsy woman selling hand-embroidered cushion covers and junk jewellery squats comfortably a block away from the FabIndia showroom; the lanky, bespectacled guy selling books secondhand will helpfully direct you to Galgotia's or the Statesman House building (which houses the Oxford Bookstore) if you ask him. No hard feelings anywhere - that's another thing that strikes you about CP. Everyone's willing to help. Some have stories to tell, too.

People are in CP because there's work to be done; people are in CP because it is the best place to while away an afternoon or an evening. There's no better place for retail therapy - you name the brand, and, ten to one, their biggest Delhi showroom will be in CP; there's also no better place if you simply want a stroll, or want to sit and watch the world go by. It is marvellous how an ever-expanding commercial area still affords its visitors the privilege of long walks, open skies, and a warm, comfortable feeling of contentment and complete freedom. You could be anyone, from any walk of life, with your own dreams and hopes and desires, and coming to CP will make you believe. If you've run out of hopes and dreams, CP will weave you some, and hand them to you with an encouraging smile. At CP, everybody belongs.

For the umpteenth time, I stood near Block F, admiring the sight of hundreds of gray pigeons feeding contentedly in and around Central Park. A few feet away stood an ice-cream cart, the vendor handing out strawberry cones to a brood of excited children. In the distance, I could see the vague outlines of the lamp-posts that line Barakhamba Road. Above it all - above us all - was a clear blue sky and a warm, benevolent sun. So quaint, so beautiful, so...perfect. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what it must have been like at 5.40 pm on September 13, 2008, to have this tranquility shattered by people who are so full of hatred, it's frightening. Time heals everything, they say. I hope it will.

I wondered if I should take an auto-rickshaw to Mathura Road, like I had planned to. I turned and walked up to one of the several parked by the pavement, and, five minutes later, had beaten the driver down to Rs. 100 from 160. Then, I decided against it - I still don't know why - and took another long walk around the Inner Circle before finally asking around (like I always end up doing) for the nearest entrance to the Metro station.

I'm lovin' it! Or am I?

This may be the result of living bang opposite a McDonald's outlet. I know for sure, for instance, that I shall never be able to eat a burger or fries again. Every time I step out of the building - or even into the balcony or on the terrace, I can FEEL burgers and fries all around me. The aroma wafts around. Everywhere. All the time. And my olfactory nerves (and my taste buds with them) are beginning to protest. It used to be good fun walking by McDonald's when we came to Kamla Nagar. Going in for a quick bite was even better fun. And when I want some time to myself, I like looking at the outlet and the surrounding area from my balcony. I've even got to know a few things - the delivery van that brings the raw material in every morning arrives exactly at nine, rain or shine. The takeaway window is unmanned between five and seven. Other trifling things that you'd notice if you were, deliberately, not thinking of anything else. But I now know what my friends, who volunteered to look after the food at the BDC or the Christmas party back in College, felt. After hours of slicing and serving cake, and orange juice and sandwiches, they'd actually refuse to have any. I remember one friend telling me they'd spent the afternoon "practically WADING in cake". "Do you REALLY think I want to even look at it any more??" She claimed the aroma of cake and juice made her sick. I laughed. Having spent the afternoon looking after children with half a dozen other people, I didn't know - how could I? - that an atmosphere, as it were, of food can actually put you off it!

Now, I know.

And, as I said, I'm glad the world is not one big McDonald's. I'm glad that people, places, circumstances... everything that makes up our world, are (or should this be "is"?) so different everywhere. Maybe it is good to have this lack of uniformity and standardization, these little imperfections. Wherever in the world you find a McDonald's, you know that the french fries are exactly the length they would be in an outlet in the other hemisphere; the burgers are grilled to exactly the same degree in every restaurant; the chocolate on your McSwirl will taste the same whether you are in Rome, Islamabad, Pune or Brunei (do they have one there? I'm sure they do. Or do they?). The only variations made will be those that are necessary - those necessitated by religious beliefs or local tastes. Even the raw material is exactly the same - largely, at least. A particular variety. There's security in that knowledge (and, of course, impeccable strategy), and that is good. But I'm still glad the powers that be didn't make the world one big McDonald's. And no, this hasn't anything to do with the fact that I won't be able to eat at one for a long, long time to come. Honest!